


The Downstairs

by DrJulesWrites



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artwork at the end of the story, Bondage, F/M, Shibari, Submission, Suspension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 03:16:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16318094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrJulesWrites/pseuds/DrJulesWrites
Summary: This piece is a part of a 20's AU group roleplay where Julian's wife - Samantha Devorak - runs a club called "The Hanged Man".At all hours The Hanged Man Club was bustling with artists and musicians, psychics and bohemians, a fog of smoke and laughter filling the labyrinth of dark rooms. There was a door with a guard, and rumors raged about the scandalous goings-on that occurred down below for those with the password. Sometimes if you listened closely, screams could be heard, but of pleasure or pain, it was hard to tell.





	The Downstairs

There's a sound down there that's hard to place, impossible to hear through the thick doors above- a gentle sound like rain, or the tinkling of tiny bells.  
You realize the stairs are leading further down than you imagined. This is not some typical basement but something more, something unexpected and thrilling. When your feet hit the solid ground, it isn't packed dirt or jagged rock but smooth polished stone that clicks and echoes under your footfalls.

There are others here, you realize it now; people moving within the darkness, just soft breaths and the rustle of fabric in directions impossible to determine. Many people, you realize. Not just a few but many in here, murmuring softly to one another in hushed tones. This is nothing like you imagined, nothing like you prepared for. Where ARE you?

The lights come up so slowly you almost don't notice you can see again. It is an enormous ballroom you stand in, hidden away under the city, likely former catacombs based on the arched ceilings and heavy support pillars. But every inch of that high sweeping ceiling is covered in dangling white crystals: a sky of them, innumerable, sparkling like freshly fallen snow. They are what cause the sound like rain- every motion of the air sends a ripple through them giving off a soft musical trill.

There are people of all walks of life here: businessmen and wealthy women shoulder to shoulder with men in wild makeup, bohemians in layers of colorful shawls, women in trendy fringed gowns, smiling young couples and studious-looking intellectuals.  
The walls are covered in heavy black cloth, dark as a void, with what seems like dozens of narrow doors leading off the main room into spaces unknown. Each large square pillar of polished black stone throughout the space has a series of gleaming chains and hooks hanging from them, some occupied by elegant men, women, and persons of gender unknowable clad in soft black and white clothing standing patiently to watch the crowd, their limbs or necks clamped in heavy metal cuffs secured by padlocks.

The lights get dimmer and people in the crowd turned their attention to the stage in the center of the main room. An elegant man, wearing a waistcoat with red bowtie walks in and as he scans the room with his steely gaze, he begins his announcement.

„Ladies, gents and all of you in between. The moment you were all waiting for is nigh. With my **extreme** pleasure I give you… ...The Hanged Man.”

An excited murmur fills the room as two people enter the stage. The simply dressed figures, each in loose white shirts over plain black tuxedo pants, begin to prepare their equipment. Coils of red rope and shiny metal hooks are displayed over the table.

Just as they are about to commence their act, they notice a commotion in the back of the crowd. The room falls absolutely silent as the guests acknowledge **her** presence with profound respect, splitting to make room for her to walk over to the stage. Despite not being tall, the woman nevertheless cuts an imposing figure- curves clad in carefully draped layers of flowing red silk, gloves to her elbows, dark hair in ringlets pinned up with red roses, something about her is both romantic and vaguely terrifying. Her eyes are shadowed in dark kohl and her smile is steady, calm, and utterly in control.

She’s followed by a tall, slender man dressed in a three-piece suit; with a long black jacket, grey suit vest, and a red shirt, his look is completed by tinted round glasses and a full head of messy auburn curls. At first glance, he looks intimidating, but there’s something about him, that makes him seem almost... fragile.

As they approach the stage, they don’t even have to say anything. Their employees bow their heads and step aside, leaving the stage for them only. As they stand, facing each other in the soft spotlight it feels like they are the only two people in the room. Julian kneels in front of her, ready to surrender to her will.

She looks down at him with clear affection, gently removing his glasses with the delicate touch of someone handling a precious object, to reveal his startling scarlet eye. There is a low murmur in the crowd close enough to spot the anomaly, but most have taken to watching with eager fascination. Slowly, so slowly it would be agonizing if it wasn't also somehow entrancing, the woman in red silk slides off her partner’s jacket and lets it fall to the floor. He makes no move to stop her, just allowing her to do as she pleases.

He looks at her without the restrictions of the glasses that he usually wears, admiring the true color of her fair skin practically glowing in the dim light. He watches her every movement, feeling the soft touch of her fingertips on his face, like a drop of warm rain, falling on his skin… So, so thirsty for her affection. When her hands slide under his jacket, caressing his shoulders while she takes it off, he feels the familiar tingle of excitement. He loves the moments when she strips him from all of his confines, uncovering the man that he is for her.

She begins unbuttoning his vest, their eye contact never wavering, then moves to the shirt underneath. The tension in the room is palpable- this feels like something they should not be seeing, but not a single person can look away.  
Gently, ever so slowly, she slides her hands under the fabric of his shirt and lets it fall away, his bare skin pale as cream. His shoulders are broad and strong, which with his narrow waist makes him look like a statue. There is an audible intake of breath in the crowd- men and women alike startled by his unusual beauty. The woman in red’s smile widens. This is what she lives for. This is WHO she lives for.

He feels his heart beating faster and his skin reacting with shivers to every touch as she’s unbuttoning his shirt. His whole body starts burning with the pure **want** , coloring his cheeks and neck with a sultry shade of pink, but he doesn’t dare to move a muscle, relishing the absolute control she has over him.

She makes a show of removing her long gloves a finger at a time, slipping each one off sensuously and letting it dangle before dropping it to the floor. She runs her newly revealed fingers over her partner’s smooth pale shoulders, up the lines of his throat, exploring him almost with wonder, her desire painted with every stroke of her hand. He gazes up, obedient, breathing slowly and steadily but clearly tense with excitement. You have seen love, seen passion, but never before have you witnessed such raw naked need between two people, as though one could not exist without the other.

Finally, she steps away, all swift motions and practiced skill, wrapping the blood red ropes around her hands and standing behind her partner. Although he doesn't turn to look, he smiles lightly and closes his eyes, shoulders dropping to a relaxed position, hands crossed at the small of his back.

He feels her presence behind him, the anticipation of what is about to happen fueling his deepest desires. He wants… no, he desperately _needs_ to submit to her. To give up all of his control, so he can quiet his mind and just exist for a while.

She brings his forearms together, wrists to elbows and commenced to tie the first knot. Her movements are steady and commanding, but also full of affection. As he feels that first knot tighten, he embraces the warm, tingly feeling only known to him when he is submitting to **her**. His breath is deep and shaky, and although his pants are quite tight (so it isn’t that obvious) he is unquestionably excited.

When she finishes immobilizing his arms, she puts her hands on his shoulder blades and slowly, but firmly slide them to his neck and up to the nape of his hair, tugging at them to tilt his head backward, exposing his throat. A breathy gasp escapes his lips at the luscious sting of pain that he needed so much.

She leans over and places a few kisses from his collarbone going up the line of his neck until she reaches the delicate spot behind his ear. She whispers something to him, so low that no one in the audience could hear. It was a praise meant only for his ears, turning his face into an expression of sheer bliss.

She lets go of his hair and returns to her knotwork. She wraps the crimson red rope all around his chest, making sure it’s firm but not tight enough to limit his breathing… too much.

He knows he could trust her with his life and whatever she inflicts on him is welcomed with a sense of gratefulness. His breath transforms from deep long intakes to short and shallow ones. She kneels in front of him and pulls at the knot at his breastbone, lowering him enough to engulf him in a kiss that could only be described as lustful.

She stands up and grazes his jawline, lifting his head fondly, giving him more praise, telling him how good he is. She comes back to the table to grab another coil of the rope. Standing behind him once again she slides the rope around his neck, expertly calculating just how tight the rope should get- not to hurt him, but still providing him the sensation of restraint. She binds the rope into an elaborate collar, leaving some of it loose like a leash dangling from his throat.

She circles him like an animal, eyeing her prey, her movements deliberate and graceful as she tugs at the rope, making him rise to his feet. She brushes her fingers on his tight stomach, making his skin shiver, the flame in his belly growing hotter every second. She takes yet another coil of rope and loops it a few times around his hips, attaching a small metal ring in front of it.

She nods at the assistants and they produce a velvet-clad bench. She leads him to it, letting him lean against it slowly, as he is already immersed in his feverish haze.

She sits behind his head and grazes the skin on his chest affectionately, asking if everything feels alright, but all he can do is nod slightly and breath out an almost inaudible "yes". She moves to the other side of the bench to bend one of his legs at the knee, tying a firm knot there, attaching his calf to his thigh, making a visible dent in his skin. It was then that the assistants bring another coil of fiery red rope, slightly thicker than the one she was using before. She secures it around his waist and has one of the assistants, much much taller than she is, brings the other end of the rope up, over their heads. It is only then that members of the audience look up and realize that in between the hanging crystals above there are also hidden chains, dangling from the ceiling with large metal loops at the ends.

Everything to this point has been simple. Aesthetic. Careful and practiced but reasonably harmless, just tension and ease in all the right places. But now, there came trust, something infinitely more difficult...and dangerous. She eyes all the riggings, examines all the rings and ropes, takes her time, stretches out the anticipation even further until people are leaning forward to watch. Finally satisfied, she makes a gesture to the assistants and they begin the process of moving the table away.

She walks over to her partner, trussed and dizzy, ready for what is to come, and takes just another brief second to run her eyes over him hungrily. Then with a nod the assistants help with the final connections- lengths of rope around the leg, careful arrangement of the limbs. The final preparation is what will make all the difference; he must trust her completely, give himself no room for fear or nerves. She pulls the “leash” at his neck and bends his free leg, and with small gasps from the audience bringing a small smirk to her lips she secures a final solid square knot to bend his lithe figure into a position of extreme contortion. He winces slightly only once, visibly steadying his breathing.  
They are ready.

Ever the cautious mistress, she checks on him one last time, delicately placing a soft kiss on his parted lips. Where before there was fragility, now there is also determination. Without words he tells her - do it.

She only needs the assistants at first, to slide the bench away as she uses all her weight to pull the ropes, hoisting the pale red-haired man upward, his limbs folded and bowed, floating on the air like a figure of spun glass.

Everything is balanced flawlessly; this is why they are experts, this is why people from all over pay for her workshops to learn her secrets. A grown man a foot taller than her had, before their eyes been arranged like a flower and lifted to the heavens above their heads, and the effect was nothing short of breathtaking. She can see in their eyes a fraction of the admiration for him that she feels every day, a hint of the desire he sparked in her from their first touch, and there is nothing but radiant pride on her face. What the audience had believed would perhaps be a bawdy or raunchy sex act had transformed into something so much more, a love letter written in flesh and bone, a delicate dance of pleasure and pain.  
  


_Artist:<https://www.instagram.com/skr1186/>_


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